


Spirits Melted Into Air

by ruric



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Community: comment_fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-14
Updated: 2010-09-14
Packaged: 2017-11-14 18:57:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/518465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruric/pseuds/ruric
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It doesn't matter if it's a dream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spirits Melted Into Air

If there's one thing Eames has cultivated over the last 15 years of his extensive and varied career, it's an appreciation for the finer things in life. True, any casual observer may doubt this looking at the way he dresses (most of the time), the neighbourhoods in which he chooses to live or the restaurants and bars he frequents. But Eames' skill is to blend in, fading into the background because keeping a low profile is key to having a long life in his business, particularly for a forger. 

So when he finds himself blinking awake, vision still blurred as he surfaces from REM sleep, the first thing he's aware of is the thread count on the fine Egyptian cotton sheets under his skin and it's so very tempting to want to rub chest, hips and belly into that softness. The second is that this is the single most comfortable mattress he's ever spent a night on, because his body doesn't ache in the places it usually aches when he wakes in the apartment in Mombassa.

But it's the third that brings him fully conscious, years of training kicking in to keep his body totally still forcing his lungs to exhale slowly and not let his breath catch in his throat.

The third thing he's aware of is the warmth of a body pressed closely behind him, its heat leaching into him. A soft huff of breath on his neck causes his skin to goose and there's a hand curving over his hip in a way that is both curiously intimate but speaks of ownership too.

It's not the first time Eames has woken up naked in bed with a man with only the dimmest of recollections of how he got there. But those mornings are usually accompanied by a blinding headache and a certain level of nausea depending on exactly what he'd been drinking, smoking or otherwise consuming the evening before.

He blinks again, squinting across the room taking in the aged polished wooden floor, the finely wrought but frayed antique rug, two chairs either side of a table which bears a decanter of alcohol (unspecified but judging by the colour either very good whiskey or a fine armagnac) and two glasses. 

No mirrors, art or icons adorn the warm terracotta walls (as far as he can see) and the bed is large and old, bedstead made of curled and whorled dark cast iron with brass gilding and wire adding decoration. Sunlight is creeping into the room, a muted golden haze softened by the worn muslin curtains. The window behind the curtains allows a gentle breeze in bringing with it the scent of earth, rosemary and dry grass.

The room is nowhere he recognises. 

It's certainly not one of the usual haunts he would adjourn to with a casual pick up, the type of place where rooms can be rented by the hour or the night.

The room may not be known to him but he doesn't need to turn his head to know that the body behind is. Graceful limbs wrapped in sculpted muscle, the jut of a hip bone against his arse, the long fingered hand are all achingly familiar.

"You can stop faking, I know you're awake."

The words are breathed into his skin, lips follow ghosting kisses from the nape of his neck along his shoulder sending a shudder he can't repress down his spine all the way to his toes.

"How did you know?"

He rolls over onto his back and the hand that was curving around his hip slides tantalisingly slowly upwards fingers splaying wide, palm resting on his belly. Eames groans, fighting the urge to reach down and push the hand lower, biting his lip to stop his hips canting up to seek out the grip of those long fingers.

The body beside him shifts, pushing up onto one elbow and Arthur's looking down at him. 

"You were too still."

Arthur's hair is ruffled, his eyes dark, pupils blown black, and there's a line of purple bruises bitten into his skin from just below his left ear to his collarbone. He looks just a little bit like a fallen angel, one who hasn't precisely objected to the tumble from on high and Eames huffs a laugh at his own fancifulness.

It's almost too good to be true and Eames turns his head, sees the bedside cabinet and the poker chip sitting there within easy reach. All he has to do is stretch out his hand and he can touch it.

"So?"

Arthur's voice is a husky whisper and Eames turns to look at him again.

"I'm really not sure I want to know whether this is real or a dream, darling."

Arthur's lips curve up into a smile that is wicked and knowing and full of promise.


End file.
